


open the sky for me

by strawberryfinn



Category: One Direction (Band), X Factor RPF
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryfinn/pseuds/strawberryfinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Who are you? How do you know my name?"</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"Niall... don't you know who I am? It's me, Harry. I'm your boyfriend."</i>
</p><p>After an accident, Niall suffers severe memory loss and doesn't remember anything about One Direction or his relationship with Harry. Harry must find it in himself to make Niall fall in love with him again, but it might prove more than he can handle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

Someone's screaming.

Louder, louder, louder.

It hurts his ears, so, so much, and he needs the screaming to stop because his head is pounding and everything hurts and why won't it _stop_ please, please, please make it stop make it stop make it stop.

"Over here! Please God, we're over here! Shit oh shit oh shit, Niall look at me, look at me, babes-"

Blessed silence.

It's so dark and he can't see and it's scary and there's a splitting ache in his head and it feels like he's just going to rip in half and—

"Niall, Niall, Ni-"

The voice is desperate now, hinged and hooked and splintered with sobs but it's not screaming thank God, thank God, the screaming has stopped because this hurts and everything hurts and he can't—

—there's sobbing, uncontrollable crying, wailing, and—

there are fingers latching around his, tracing circles of the back of his hands, tracing patterns over his palms, and then squeezing, squeezing so, so hard.

"Don't you let go of my hand you stupid, selfless bastard, don't you dare let go. Please, please Niall-"

"Male, age 22. Severe concussion, internal bleeding, multiple lacerations. Patient is in critical condition—Sir, we're going to need you to let go-"

"-I can't, don't make me leave him--he needs me, he _needs_ me, please, _please_ -"

"Sir, you need to move so we can do our work. Sir, excuse me, _sir_ -"

"I love you so much, Ni. I love you so, so fucking much—don't you let go of me. You can't die on me, okay, not now, not after all we've been through-"

"Sir, you need to let go—please let us do our work-"

"-he's my boyfriend, he's mine, okay, I love him, I love him. Shit, I just—please, please-"

"-we're doing all we can, sir. Please, sir, let go of him. What's your name—oh gosh, are you bleeding?"

"-I-"

"-someone get a paramedic over here for him! We need more help! What's your name?"

"Harry, my name's Harry. Is he going to be alright?"

"Okay, very good Harry. Can you tell me how old and where you are?"

"Is he going to be alright?"

"Sir, I need you to answer the questions."

"I'm 22. This is my b-boyfriend, Niall. I'm okay—I'm okay. Is he going to be alright?"

There are fingers laced in his again, squeezing hard. Something soft pressed against his forehead.

"We're doing all we can, but sir, you need to let go."

His head is splitting with pain and everything feels wet and smells coppery and he wants to open his eyes but he's just so, so _tired_. The hand's wrenched off of his hand, and he can hear the screaming start up again, but this time it sounds more like a plea.

"Niall, Ni, don't you _dare_ give up on me, you understand?"

—Darkness.


	2. chapter one

“Harry, you need to sleep.” 

Harry glances up from where his head is crooked downwards, catching the gaze of a weary looking Louis. The last few days have worn Louis out, generating bags stippled purple with fatigue under his eyes, wrinkles in his forehead. His normally perfectly coiffed hair is limp in greasy, stringy cinnamon-coloured strands, and if Louis looks like this, Harry can only imagine what he looks like.

He wonders if he looks how he feels—with ghosts hiding in the pockets under his eyes, thin skin stretched tight and chapped over his lips. Wonders if his eyes, normally a dark, mossy green, have faded to reflect how incomplete he feels—if maybe it's possible to cry away the pigment, possible to cry away part of his soul.

Harry doesn't answer, just shrugs one of his defeated shoulders. A wave of pain rushes through his aching, sprained arm—he got it set in a sling two days ago, but it still hurts with sudden movements. He feels weighed down by fear, and at this point he's so exhausted, it's only stale coffee that's keeping him running. “Can't.”

“Harry.” Louis's voice is flat and authoritative, and he's crossed his arms expectantly. “Killing yourself over this isn't helping any of us and it's certainly not helping Niall.”

Harry looks away from him, because it's too hard to meet Louis's eyes and see the disappointment flickering in them, because he knows, he _knows_ , he's being difficult. He also knows that this is all his fault—it's _his_ fault Niall's in the hospital and.

“ _Harry_. You need to sleep.”

Harry picks at the styrofoam cup with his good arm, watching the tiny white pebbles collect on the floor. He takes a sip of the cold coffee, and winces as it goes down, bitter in the back of his throat. He's not sure how long he's been in the waiting room, but he's just hoping for some sort of sign from above or a message from the doctor that things are going to be okay.

“I know you're worried—we all are. But you got hurt too, and you're not going to get better if you don't get some rest, and you're worrying yourself sick. You're worrying Niall's _parents_ sick too—I finally convinced Maura and Bobby to go back to their hotel. You're freaking all of us out too—Zayn's smoked through almost an entire pack of fags today, and if Liam doesn't sit down and stop pacing back and forth like a madman, I swear I'm going to punch him.”

It's odd that Louis's become the voice of reason. Harry's used to him diffusing tension—wants Louis to crack some wiseass joke about Niall being a regular Snow White just waiting for his Prince Charming to come and kiss him awake, or poke fun at Liam for worrying so much, telling him if he gets too worked up he'll bald faster. Harry wants Louis to ruffle his hair and press a sloppy kiss on his cheek and promise him things will be okay. Liam's often mistaken for the oldest in the band because he's responsible and knows how to answer questions professionally, and worries and takes care of all of them, whether it's rubbing circles on the small of Louis's back after a rough night out or making sure he packs an extra set of clothes for Zayn before they go on tour or taking care of them when they're sick but Harry never knew that in times of absolute crisis, Liam breaks down.

“I can't _help_ ,” Liam had admitted, and he'd seemed to crumple in on himself right there after seeing the crimson blood splattering the fabric of Niall's t-shirt, the paleness of his face, the crooked angle of Harry's arm. “I don't know how, and I... I _can't_ ,” he had repeated, as though his worst fears had been realized, and perhaps they had.

And the funny thing is that Louis's stepped up.

Louis stepped into the role of the leader as demanded of him—he's pleaded and prodded with Harry. He's forced Zayn to take a nap, for Liam to go home and make some tea and spend some time with his family. He's become the oldest, and he's serious and concerned, and Harry... Harry just wants the old, rambunctious, silly Louis back. He wants the Louis who will make him believe anything, wants carefree, lighthearted Louis, and he's terrified because he knows Louis is scared too.

Louis is just as scared as all of them that Niall won't make it. And Harry just wants Louis to tell him it'll be okay.

He also wishes Louis would stop telling him to sleep.

Because how can he _possibly_ explain to Louis that every time he closes his eyes, he's brought back _there_ , with Niall flinging his body in front of Harry's and there's blood, so much _blood_ , and Niall's whining, _whimpering_ in pain—a sound that pierces through Harry's heart, sends a deep cut straight through his very soul. And Niall's body is crumpled against the floor, and there's blood, coppery, metallic-smelling, crimson _blood_ seeping into the asphalt and red tendrils curling into the lines of Harry's palms, as Harry screams because _his_ Niall is crying out for help, and there's no one there to save them.

“Harry,” Louis starts again, and he would sound impatient if he didn't sound so sad.

Harry takes another sip of coffee—a fuller gulp this time. He shrugs his shoulders, back muscles tight with fatigue. He refuses to meet Louis's gaze, tunes out the other boy's voice, and focuses on breathing.

________________________________________

Harry's favourite thing about living with Niall used to be the way Niall looked when he woke up. Golden hair mussed and slanted sideways, roots coloured dark chocolate, sky blue eyes blinking up sleepily at him, lips swollen and pink. He loved the way Niall would pepper his face with kisses, loved the way Niall fit just right against his chest, all wiry muscle and warmth. He thinks he liked most though, the way Niall would give him that slow, secretive smile, over something as simple as breakfast—a smile that would make Harry's heart flutter in his chest, make him feel wanted, _safe._

He thinks about that now—that small smile that splayed over Niall's lips when he woke up, the one only for Harry—as he stares down at Niall's still body in the hospital bed. He gazes down at Niall's bandaged sides, the IVs and wires tangled around his limbs the tubes shoved up his nostrils to help him breathe. Niall's impossibly white—always has been pale—but he looks drained of life, and if it weren't for the steady beating of the monitor and the simultaneously reassuring and scary green spikes of the ECG, Harry would swear he's dead.

He slips his fingers over the back Niall's hand, skirts carefully at the delicate skin on the inside of Niall's wrist. “Hey baby,” he whispers, and his voice breaks.

There are tears spiking his eyes, and he closes them, taking a stuttery breath. He clears his throat and tries again.

“Hi babe,” he chokes, “the um... the doctor said your brain is taking a break. Um... that your body needs to rest so it can catch up with the rest of you, and I just... I just want you to know that you just... you take all the time you need, yeah?”

He threads his fingers through Niall's limp ones, and the beep of the monitor is the only response he gets.

“I just... I don't even know if you can hear me. But just... don't give up on me, okay, Ni? You can't give up on me. I know you're really tired, but I'll wait as long as you want. I'll... you take as long as you need. I'm not. I'm not going anywhere.”

________________________________________

It's Louis that finally forces him to go home.

Louis grabs Harry by the arm and Harry's really too tired to protest much as the older boy drags him out into his car and forcibly buckles him in. There are paparazzi swarming the parking lot (thankfully none are around the hospital doors due to security policy), and Harry flinches as the cameras flash in his face because _don't they know what he's going through?_ Louis gives them the finger, his lips in a grim, tight line, and shoves Harry into his car. Harry knows Louis will get chewed out by management for that, but he can't help but feel a bit grateful because he knows Louis is just trying to protect him.

That doesn't stop Harry from complaining and objecting—telling Louis he needs to stay back at the hospital because what happens if Niall wakes up and nobody's there for him? They both finally settle on the agreement that he'll return first thing in the morning because it's Niall's parents turn to stay over anyways. Harry would fight to return earlier, but he gets a glance of his face in the rearview mirror, and his eyes are puffy and his face is covered with an oily sheen and his hair is greasy, so yeah. Cleaning himself up might be good.

In the safety of his flat, Louis busies himself making Harry tea and settles himself down on the couch while Harry takes a shower. When Harry comes out, hair dripping and face clean for the first time in days, Louis silently hands Harry a steaming mug of tea. They don't speak, but Harry nudges Louis's shoulder in a silent thank you, and Louis gives him an impercetible nod of his head in return. Louis runs his fingers over the skin at the juncture between Harry's thumb and index finger in a way that's reassuring, and doesn't say anything when Harry starts crying again, just shushes him and tells him that they'll go back in the morning. 

In the end, Harry makes Louis take the guest bed, and he's glad when Louis agrees to it because he doesn't want to be in the flat alone. Harry curls up into his own bed, and tries not to think about how empty the king-sized mattress is without Niall, tries to forget that he can't fall asleep without someone to hold. He ends up fisting one of Niall's old jumpers in his hands, breathing in the familiar scent of cologne and boy and _Niall,_ and falls into a fitful sleep.

It's 2:47 AM when he sits up straight in bed, screaming, heart pounding in his chest. His brain is full of Niall's sobs, Niall's cries, Niall asking him to save him, _please Harry, please, please, don't you love me?_ and Harry's cheeks are damp and his breath uneven.

Louis breaks into his room, hair going all different directions and face slack with fatigue, and when Harry demands to be taken back to the hospital, Louis obliges.

Harry curls up in a chair next to Niall's bed, and lets Louis pull a blanket over his shoulders. Louis doesn't complain the entire time, and Harry thinks he has the best best friend in the world.

________________________________________

Harry's asleep when a whimper wakes him up. 

It's terrified, and the breathing is erratic, and it strikes Harry that Niall's _awake._

With a whoop, he rushes to Niall's bed. The glass window in the hospital room is painted dark grey, the lighting incredibly dim and practically nonexistent, and Harry realizes it's still ridiculously early/late depending how you look at it, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that his heart is jumping in his chest, and he's swiping at his eyes because Niall's _awake_ , his Niall's awake and alive, and everything, _everything_ is going to be okay. 

He bounds over to Niall's bed, and he can't stop smiling, because even in the fuzzy dark, Niall's gorgeous. Niall's blue eyes bleary and horribly confused, but he's awake and he's _alive_ and this god-awful wait is over, and he can't wait to take Niall home so they can get through this together. He can't wait to not have to be _alone_ anymore, and even though there are tears beading in his eyes, matting his lashes together, he can't stop the grin from spilling over his face as he stands over his boyfriend. He takes Niall's hand and presses kisses to his knuckles, kisses Niall's cheekbones, avoiding where there are scrapes and bandages, before breaking off to just _look_ at Niall, alive and okay.

“Hi,” he murmurs, and if he sounds ridiculously relieved and happy, it's because he is.

Niall looks up at him, face drawn long and expression bewildered. Harry touches a hand to Niall's shaved and bandaged head—realizes Niall must be freaked out—anybody would be after having been out for a week and a half and waking up in an unfamiliar white room that smells of cleaning chemicals and sickness, but it's okay because Harry's here, and Harry's going to take care of him.

He leans over and flips on the hospital room's light, figuring the dark must have Niall nervous. Niall blinks a few times, eyes adjusting to the bright light, and Harry takes in how pale and tired he is, but can't help but think Niall looks more beautiful than ever.

“You're going to be okay,” he tells Niall, and he doesn't know whether it's more for his or Niall's sake but he figures it doesn't hurt either way. “Oh sweetheart, you're gonna be alright. It was pretty bad, but you're okay.”

Niall just looks at him, sky blue eyes blank and vacant. His bottom lip is trembling.

“Babe?” A trickle of concern seeps into his voice because Niall's never looked at him like this before.

And when Niall finally speaks, his voice is scratchy.

“Who are you?”

________________________________________

“It's me. It's Harry,” the boy says. He's wearing a dark black t-shirt, and Niall registers the dark black tattoos scribbled all over the boy's arms when he leans in and presses a soft, chaste kiss to Niall's forehead. “Shh, I know you're scared, baby, but everything's going to be okay.”

Niall lets out a muffled protest into the boy's shirt, and the boy— _Harry_ —steps back. 

“Shit, I'm sorry, Ni,” Harry babbles, as he skirts his fingers over Niall's cheekbone like he can't believe Niall's alive. “Didn't mean to hurt you.”

“You didn't hurt me,” Niall tells him. He looks around the room, registers the IV in his arm, the light blue johnny he's wearing. He searches his brain for a reply, and blurts, “I think you have the wrong person.”

The stranger's eyebrows knit in the middle of his forehead, and his green eyes gleam with something akin to concern. “What? Niall, I know you're confused and overwhelmed, but it's okay. _Everything_ is going to be okay.”

“How do you know my name?” Niall asks, voice shaky. His throat is dry and parched, his voice hoarse and unused, and it kind of hurts to talk. “Who are you?”

“Ni... don't you know who I am?” Harry replies carefully, low voice hitched with anxiety. He laces his fingers into Niall's. “It's me... it's _Harry_.”

“I don't know who you are,” Niall says, pulling his hand out of Harry's grasp, because he's never seen this boy before, and he doesn't like the way Harry keeps touching him. He's scared, and he's in a hospital and he just wants his mam and his dad. His eyes are watering because he's scared and his body hurts and _everything_ hurts and he doesn't know who this boy is. “Where's my mam?”

“Niall.” Harry's voice is pitchy with worry now. “Niall, you have to know me. It's me, it's Harry. I'm your boyfriend, don't you remember?”

“No,” Niall tells him, and one of the tears spills over, hot as it trails down his cheek. “I want my parents.”

Harry's mouth is flopped open now, lips in a speechless o, and Niall feels embarrassed and pathetic, sitting in a hospital bed, crying in front of a complete stranger. But he's overwhelmed and frightened, heart skittering in his chest. 

Harry staggers back abruptly as though he's been slapped. His hands come up over his open mouth, and he's running to the door.

“Help!” Harry yells, running to the door. Niall's heart jumps at the pain and the rawness of Harry's voice. “Doctor! Can we get some help over here?”

Niall closes his eyes and cries.

________________________________________

Niall lets out a sigh of relief when he spots his parents. He sees Harry give his mam a hug, wrapping his arms tight around his mother's shoulders, and something tenses in his chest because that must mean that Harry _knows_ her, knows his parents.

He feels infinitely better when his parents walk cautiously into the room. His mother breaks into swift steps, walking towards Niall and engulfing him into her arms. Niall rests his head against her chest, reveling in the semblance of safety and feeling for the first time since he woke up that he might be okay.

“Hi Pumpkin,” his mam says, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “how are you feeling?”

“Thirsty,” Niall replies honestly, and his mam lets out a dry laugh at that. From where he's behind her, Niall's dad thrusts a Styrofoam cup full of water towards him. Niall takes a few sips, and then continues, “I'm confused.”

“Talk to us,” Niall's mam says, leaning back. “We were so, so scared, sweetie, and we're so happy you're okay.” Niall's dad reaches a hand forward, squeezes Niall's hand hard, and Niall swears for a second that he sees tears in his dad's eyes.

“I'm. What happened?” Niall asks. “How'd I get hurt?”

“You were in an accident.” His mam is teary-eyed as she says it, and her bottom lip is trembling so precariously that Niall regrets having asked. “You lost a lot of blood, Niall, and you hurt your head. Some internal bleeding, and oh God, honey, I thought you were going to die.”

Niall takes in the information, then takes a deep breath. Glances down at the plaster bandages wrapping his sides, the tubes coming out of his arms. “Mam, Dad... who's Harry?”

He sees his parents exchange a careful look, and then his dad starts. “Harry's your boyfriend, Niall.”

“I don't,” Niall starts, forehead creasing with confusion. “I don't have a boyfriend.”

“Niall, sweetie, I know this is a lot to take in,” his mother croons, and Niall shakes his head. He feels dizzy.

“I don't _have_ a boyfriend.”

His mam sits back and presses her hands to his face. Her fingers are shaking, and Niall looks at her, really _looks._

He can see the criss-crossed wrinkles spilling over her face, at the corners of her eyes. How her hair is more grey than he remembered it. He glances up at his dad, and he sees the same thing—his father's chin is stippled with grey and white, and his parents look older, tired.

“What's... what's going on?” Niall asks, and his mam lets out a shuddery sigh. 

“The doctor thinks that your brain damage,” she squeaks, and her voice breaks, and Niall's father, who looks impossibly _old,_ finishes for her. “He thinks you have brain damage that caused amnesia. Memory loss from the accident.”

“What?” Niall asks, because he's confused—he doesn't remember anything except for school and his friend Sean and his home in Mullingar. Everybody here—the doctors, the nurses—have rich British accidents, and he's used to the thick Irish curling off of people's lips. “Where am I?” he asks, even though he knows because the doctor already told him when he asked him some questions, that he's in a hospital in London and that he's suffered from internal bleeding and head trauma.

His mam starts crying, and his father laces his arm comfortingly around her shoulder, looking slightly uncomfortable. Niall registers that they're still divorced—the accident hasn't changed that.

His parents start talking.

They tell him that Harry's his boyfriend, that he lives with Harry in a flat in London—which is actually quite close to the hospital itself, that Harry takes care of him and he takes care of Harry, that he _loves_ Harry. They tell him that he met Harry when he was put together in a group of boys on the X Factor because none of them made it through as solo acts, but that Simon Cowell decided to give them a shot as a group. They tell him that the boys of One Direction are like brothers to him—his best friends in the world, his family, really.

_One Direction_ and _ZaynLiamLouis_ and _Harry_ are reeling through Niall's head.

“One Direction?” Niall says, processing the new information, because he tries to picture himself on the X Factor. He's grown up watching the show on the tele, and never figured he'd try out for it. “Are we any good?”

Niall's mam tears up again. “The _best_.”

His dad looks like he might cry as he tells Niall the adventures that One Direction has been on together. He tells him they've released three albums and have had singles that have topped the Billboard 100 and are the world's biggest boyband. That they've won VMAs and Brits and that they've played at Madison Square Garden. They've been on three world tours and were on their fourth when Niall and Harry got hurt.

“Me and Harry?” Niall asks in a small voice. His head aches.

“Yes, sweetie. He's like a son to us—all of the boys, really, but him especially. You love him,” his mam promises, “you love him more than anything, Niall. You trust me, don't you, sweetie?” 

And Niall does, he _does_ trust his mam, but he doesn't remember anything—he doesn't remember _anything_ about this boy, and he's freaking out.

His mam hands him her phone—an iPhone model Niall doesn't remember being released. There's a _Wikipedia_ article about One Direction, and Niall recognizes his face in the picture among four other boys. He looks different, with the childish roundness of his face the way he remembered it gone, and his hair is styled up in a quiff rather than just flat on his head, and he's taller, slimmer. He studies the boys flanking him—there's one with cinnamon-coloured, tousled hair and stormy blue eyes, one with thick eyebrows and dark buzzed hair, one with dark chiseled features and broody lips, and then _Harry_. Harry with rich curlicues of hair the colour of milk chocolate, full pink lips, tanned skin, and bright eyes that remind Niall of green Haribos.

His parents are watching him intently, as he drags his finger over the screen, searching his face for what Niall figures must be a flicker of recognition.

But there’s nothing.

He’s drawing up blanks—doesn’t feel anything, doesn’t know anything. The boys staring back at him on the screen—even the strange, older version of him—are all strangers. He doesn’t recognize any of their faces, doesn’t know their names without the prodding of the caption under the picture, doesn’t know what One Direction is and doesn’t know his boyfriend Harry and doesn’t know this entire life into which he’s been thrown.

“I’m tired,” he manages, and he hates the way that his mam flinches, but his head hurts and he can’t do _this_ right now.

“Oh, sleep, sweetie,” his mam croons, and Niall nods. Hands his mam back her phone, and closes his eyes. Secretly hopes that when he wakes up, this will all just be a bad dream.

**Author's Note:**

> this is just the prologue! please let me know what you think, and i'll post more :) xx


End file.
